


And The Northern Lights Will Take Us In Like Refugees

by ProneToRelapse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Inordinate amounts of fluff, M/M, Marriage, This is so soft I cried writing it, Wedding Fluff, Weddings, soft boys in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 06:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15431178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: Connor's never known happiness quite like this.





	And The Northern Lights Will Take Us In Like Refugees

**Author's Note:**

> Requirement for reading: Listen to Lover's Waltz by Ben Caplan on repeat for the entirety of this fic for optimum Emotions(TM)

“Connor? Are you ready?”

 

“I’m ready.”

 

“Then let’s go.”

With each footstep, Connor feels the ground beneath him fall further and further away, until it’s almost like he’s walking on nothing, suspended in mid-air and trying desperately to keep his footing. It’s the closest Connor has ever come to feeling what he can only describe as celestial, and he is grateful for the tight hold of support Markus has on his arm.

 

The hallway is long, old oak and mahogany, lined with artfully hung drapes of deep crimson velvet lined with golden tassels. At any other time, Connor would probably want to take more time to soak in his surroundings, but now all he cares about is what’s waiting for him behind the heavy double doors that seem so far away.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt more human in my life,” Connor says softly. Markus’ smile is gentle as he gives Connor’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

 

“That’s a good thing. Are you happy?”

 

And Connor, even with his extensively programmed vocabulary, cannot possibly find the words to accurately answer. Instead he simply nods, eyes fixed on the polished doors that are finally inching closer.

 

Markus turns them so they’re standing face to face, hands brushing down Connor’s lapels with acute attention to detail. Once satisfied, he gives a firm nod, resting a hand on Connor’s shoulder.

 

“Do you want me to cue you, or do you know when to come in?”

 

“I know,” Connor says. And he does. He knows down to the nanosecond the moment he needs to step through the doors. He knows exactly how he needs to pace his steps until he reaches his place. He knows how many beats of his synthetic heart it will take until he reaches the end of the aisle.

 

He’s never been readier for anything in his life.

 

Markus gives him a final reassuring pat before opening the doors slightly and slipping through. For a brief moment Connor lets his mind drift, listens to the rustle of fabrics, the soft murmur of hushed voices, the quiet sound of Markus’ footfalls on slate flooring. For a moment, Connor just lets himself  _feel._ No analysing, no scanning. Today, he just wants to  _be._

 

And then there’s the gentle hum of a major G gliding from the strings of a violin, and seven-point-six-three-two seconds later, Connor pushes the doors open and steps into the hall, not even registering the hundred eyes that turn to him. He can’t focus on anything except the man standing tall and proud and so very, very constant that every line of Connor’s code sings when he sees him.

 

It feels like an eternity until they’re standing side by side, but finally he’s there and all he can see is Hank, Hank filling up his vision, Hank so close that he can reach out and touch him, if only he could get his arms to work. But then Hank is there, warm, calloused hands taking Connor’s in his own, bright blue eyes misty and crinkled in the most tender smile. 

 

Connor’s vision blurs alarmingly. It takes him a moment to register the saline composite slowly welling over. He’s crying. It feels so unbelievably human.

 

His voice doesn’t sound like his own when he speaks. It feels far away, distant, crackling through speakers that don’t belong to him. But it’s steady enough, confident in his vows even if he himself feels like he’s shaking apart from the core outwards.

 

But then Hank is speaking, and his voice is strong and sure and fresh tears well over as he slides a simple platinum band onto Connor’s left ring finger, the slightest of tremors detectable in his hands. Connor presses his lips tight together against a sound he isn’t sure will be a joyful sob or laugh, holding himself tight together, focusing on nothing else but Hank as he slides the matching ring home, taking monumental pride in the way it rests confidently on his finger.

 

“I do,” Hank says, clear and victorious.

 

“I do,” Connor says, breathless with awe.

 

_With this ring I thee wed. For the rest of my days._

 

For all Connor’s relative experience with life, he knows that nothing he ever does will come close to this moment. He feels it, deep in some part of him not ruled by process or code, the softest, deepest part that must be his soul, he feels the binding truth of what they have done here today before friends and family, blood and thirium, plastic and flesh. 

 

Hank’s hands are impossibly soft as they cup Connor’s face, guiding him closer for the sweetest kiss Connor has ever felt brush across his mouth. Applause thunders through the hall but all Connor can hear is the gentle whisper of “I love you,” against his lips. He breathes it in with a shuddering gasp, drawing it into himself where he will keep the memory of it forever.

 

He wouldn’t know what to do if Hank hadn’t taken his hand and led him back down the aisle, past the rows of family and friends who cheer and whoop and whistle congratulations. He follows Hank loyally, hand’s clasped tight together, and the burst of light as they leave the hall makes his optical sensors twinge. Everything looks like it’s coated with a soft focus filter, like something out of what humans must experience when they dream of sweet things. There are fluttering petals of confetti drifting through the air, catching in the soft silver of Hank’s pony tail and beard.

 

He’s never looked more beautiful.

 

They duck into the waiting car, away from the cheers of their loved ones, and Hank is the one to take the wheel, but he only takes them as far as the next street over before he’s pulling into a free space and reaching over to pull Connor into another kiss, harder, fiercer than the one they shared before witnesses. This one speaks wordlessly of adoration, of contentment, and Connor’s artificial lungs are straining when they pull back, systems dangerously close to overheating.

 

“I just,” Hank says, forehead pressed to Connor’s. He exhales shakily. “I just need a minute. With you. Just you. Before.”

 

“I know,” Connor says. “Just you.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

 

“Talk me through it.”

 

“It’s like... joy. But it  _hurts_.”

 

“Bliss,” Hank says. “That’s what it is. I feel it, too.”

 

“I don’t ever want it to stop.”

 

“Me neither.”

The reception is a beautiful thing, simple, soft, understated in the way Hank had wanted. He wasn’t one for the pomp and circumstance. His first marriage had been registry, quiet, contained. He’d wanted more this time, more for Connor, and he’d said as much. But Connor didn’t care where they married, as long as it was Hank meeting him at the end of the aisle.

 

It’s all too perfect to be real. But Connor records every moment of it, for proof as much as for memory. Every second, eyes rarely straying away from Hank, even as they greet and thank their guests. He has the rest of his life to spend with Hank now, but even looking away for just a second feels wrong.

 

But the crowded hug he receives from his friends is still welcome, as Markus and Simon lead the embrace, Josh and North gathering in close to bury Connor in a joyful tangle of limbs and laughter. Someone ruffles his hair affectionately – he assumes it’s North – and pats his back heartily. The beam is never far from his lips, especially not when North scoops Hank into a bone crushing hug, lifting him bodily off the floor.

 

Chris and Ben shake his hand, pulling him in for brief, one-armed embraces, even Gavin offers his hand and a genuine smile, and Connor is glad to have invited him. Fowler slings an arm round Hank’s shoulder, smiling wider than Connor has ever seen him. 

 

It feels like their own joy has spread through everyone gathered, infecting them with the blissful jubilation that makes Connor feel like he’s dangerously close to shutting down from pure happiness.

 

He doesn’t feel fully replete until Hank has him in his arms again, guiding him in a slow and gentle waltz across the dance floor laid between tables, gentle music drifting through the air while they move. There isn’t a hint of self-consciousness or anxiety in Hank’s eyes. He looks so content that Connor can’t help brushing a few soft kisses against his cheek as they sway in peaceful synchrony.

 

“I don’t want this day to end.” Connor shares the sentiment, but they aren’t his words. 

 

The admission slips from Hank’s lips before he can stop it, and Connor’s face splits into a wide beam. Hank flushes a little, mouth twitching into a private smile, just between the two of them.

 

“I love you,” Connor says in reply. Hank sighs, a happy, pleased hum, and leans his cheek against Connor’s temple as the android rests his head against his husband’s shoulder.

 

“That being said,” Hank murmurs, voice low and a little rough. “I’m very much looking forward to getting you out of that suit. As good as it looks on you.”

 

Connor feels the thirium hum in his cheeks. Hank’s soft laughter is the most perfect sound.

 

“We have all the time in the world,” Connor says. “There’s no rush.”

 

“No rush.”

 

They have forever.


End file.
